Umbrella
by Stephane Richer
Summary: In the dark, you can't see shiny cars, and that's when you'll need me there.


Umbrella

Disclaimer: I don't own the song "Umbrella" by Rihanna and Jay-Z or the manga _Ouran High School Host Club_ by Bisco Hatori.

* * *

The way she says it, with the sarcastic smirk on her face, he's not sure she's serious. "You had me at 'hello'," she murmurs. It's a line from some American movie they watched together, curled up on the couch one night while he pretended to work and she leaned up against him, a contented smile on her face.

She grabs his hand, and a million flashbulbs go off, bathing the golden couple in a golden glow. The tabloids will have all their fodder for the next month and a half with that quote and these pictures. She's really a genius, she is. They won't want for more; she'll have him all to herself. It's as if she almost planned it. She does have that interview this afternoon with one of them, after all.

They're Japan's number one lovers: the Ohtori heir, one of the most powerful men in the country, and the Houshakuji heiress who nearly doubled her father's fortune with her TV show-turned TV channel, Moe Moe Live. They're so rich, famous, and busy they hardly have time for one another. No one wonders why they're together: they've both got money, fame, and good looks. That's enough of a common ground. But they think of all the wrong reasons.

Their quick minds complete each other's thoughts before they're fully formed to begin with. They've lost count of how many times they've called one another for help with business (well, Kyoya never loses count of anything, but the figure he remembers is quite large). Alone, they are formidable. Together, they are invincible.

And then there is the matter of emotion. Yes, emotion. What started out as mutual respect and curiosity turned into something more. Kyoya remembers quite clearly when he told Renge he loved her, and she replied with an unfazed "I know. I love you, too," and twined her fingers in his.

Their marriage was inevitable, and there were constant rumors of their wedding-it was in Paris! No, New York! Shanghai! London! All the most powerful people in the world would attend!

It was enough to make anyone laugh and then cry. But Renge put on a brave face, because people were watching. It wouldn't do to break down. She'd just whine to Kyoya about it, and he'd tune it out until he couldn't anymore and then he'd kiss her senseless.

"Houshakuji-san, how do you manage to find time for Ohtori-san?"

"You seem so in love!"

"Is this scripted?"

"Is it true your husband's going to be on the next Moe Moe NightLive?"

She speaks with clarity and self-assurance, answering all the questions quickly, and remembers with even more clarity. As much fun as it is to have Kyoya on TV with her, as much fun as it is to show him off to the world (and he seems to have just as much fun showing her off, as un-Kyoya-like as that might seem to all but those who know him best) that's not even scratching the surface of their love. It's the waiting, the stale loneliness of not knowing, when they hoped together, almost desperately, for him to be named heir, the late nights she spent on set, sleepless nights where she bounced her latest ideas off of him and he tirelessly gave her invaluable feedback, months he spent in America, or she in France, the pressure of feeling alone, of no one beside her to squeeze her arm and no one behind him whispering the assurances he'd defend to the death that he didn't need, the days where he's in the office and she sends him a quick e-mail, the formal dinners celebrating their successes, that, too, is their relationship, and even that doesn't go as deep as their feelings, wells to the center of the earth.

The rain isn't letting up. He looks at her and nods, and she pulls out the cheap umbrella she bought at the train station. It's amazing how she can disguise herself, put a slouch in her posture and a stutter in her step and she's just another woman in a black raincoat making a convenient purchase, muttering idly about how her umbrella's spokes snapped on her way to work that morning. She holds it up over them, covering their faces and shielding them from the weather, the paparazzi, the world. Their force field is impenetrable, steely.

"Ohtori-san, is it true you get discount rates for ads on your wife's channel?"

"How do you work for the company and work as a doctor?"

"Was that really you on TV the other day?"

"Did you actually arrange your own marriage?"

If he answers one question, he'll have to answer them all and the only one he answers to is Renge. So he just lights another cigarette and walks through the rain, knowing full well his 20,000-yen shoes and new trouser socks are about to be ruined. It's not like he can't afford more. It's not like those are even the important things in life. He works at the most exclusive hospital, as paradoxical as it might sound. The high security keeps out the press trying to mob him, and such is perfect for celebrities and high-profile criminal suspects (Renge has convinced Kyoya to pay for them out of his own pocket if they can't afford it, an idea his father would have been against and probably still is even if it has boosted the company's image, stock prices, and the number of clients demanding medical care from the Ohtori Group).

The guitarist's got skin cancer, it's metastasized and there's nothing that can be done. Damn. He should have seen a doctor earlier, shouldn't have written it off, should have made regular appointments, and Kyoya is mad at him but also mad at himself, for not being able to cure it or even give him much of a chance. If he's so brilliant he outshines his brothers (and, some say, even his father) shouldn't he be able to cure late-stage cancer? Shouldn't he be able to think of some solution? The only relief is coming home to her, when she knows something's wrong but doesn't push it, gives him space and support at the same time, holds his hand and caresses his jawline but stays silent.

Even she knows how to be quiet sometimes.

The skies are grey, and it's inconsequential. They've got one another.


End file.
